going up?

WARNING: SPOILER!

I must say, this newest gem from Pixar is their most mature piece of art yet.  UP captured the very soul of endearment and captivated me from its bittersweet beginning to sweeter end.  The exposition: Carl and Ellie Frederickson’s sixty-odd-year marriage unfolded in five wordless minutes, showing rather than telling us how they gracefully aged together.  They really had a full life, those two, and loved each other dearly. After seeing this, it was easy to understand why Carl became such a curmudgeon after the death of his wife.

On he lived in his own stubborn, unyielding ways, clinging fiercely to his house as it was when Ellie still lived there. It was sad, certainly: I wanted to wonder why he never moved on, but knew in my heart of hearts that she was his whole life and to leave the house was to give that up. So instead of allowing his circumstances to nudge him along into assisted living, he escaped, flying the house like the colossal dirigible he had seen in the newsreels as a boy.

I don’t feel like giving away the ENTIRE plot, but what I would like to expound upon is the central binding thread of the story: Ellie’s “adventure book”.  When it is first introduced, it’s obviously a child’s scrapbook–complete with an empty section labeled “things I’m going to do”–and once the children grow up, you think that’s the end of it. But after Carl and Ellie discover they cannot have children (the first of many misty-eyed moments that evening), out it comes again as a reminder that adventure is still awaiting them.  Away it goes once more, having served its purpose as a good-humored kick in the pants.  Until Ellie dies.  Just before passing, she hands the book to Carl, who sees himself a dismal failure for never fulfilling her dream to visit Paradise Falls. Years pass before he opens it again–this time, it is just as he is setting out on his journey in the floating house. But it is too painful for him to look past that one page.  He just knows he will find further affirmation of his shortcomings. It isn’t until the end of the movie that he mans up enough to view the rest of the book. But instead of whatever he expects to see, these last pages are full of photos of he and Ellie on their greatest adventure to date: their marriage.

What a beautiful scene! As far as I can tell, never having been married myself, life with that special someone is definitely a memorable journey. It’s chock-full of dangers, worries, excitement, joy, sorrow–heck, the whole gamut of emotions and experiences! And through it all, Carl remained wholly devoted to Ellie (it smacks strongly of “husbands, love your wives,” does it not?). This afternoon in my and Beloved’s first pre-marital counseling session, the Pastor walked us through the differences between a covenant and a contract. The latter is simply a legal statement of what is expected from each party; and as easily as they are made, they can be broken if even one point is breached. There is nothing more than that. Covenants, however, are not made to be so neatly broken–they may provide ramifications for transgressions, but the covenant itself remains. I think the quote in the Pastor’s notes sums it up nicely:

A Contract is an agreement made in suspicion between parties who do not trust each other and therefore place limits on their responsibilities. A Covenant is an agreement made in trust between parties who love each other and therefore place no limits on their responsibility.

The covenants made between a husband and wife should reflect those made between God and man; and what a breathtaking picture of love that is! Although this movie (no, I haven’t forgotten about my original train of thought) doesn’t delve that deeply into the nature of Carl and Ellie’s relationship, I do believe they shared these kind of covenants made in love for one another. Their lives were all the fuller for it–so the involuntary desire to similarly grow old with my Beloved did not take me by surprise. Indeed, I cannot wait for our life together to begin: “Adventure is Out There!”

forever begins now

Something happened to me this evening that turned my whole body into Jello.

Very. Excited. Jello.

The best place to start these type things is the beginning, but that was so long ago and the journey so arduous that I must needs save it for another day. So instead, please allow me to begin at the commencement of this chapter.

Last week as I was preparing to come home from school for the summer, Beloved and I decided that we wanted to spend an evening together sometime this weekend. He told me to choose a place to eat and that he’d pick me up at five o’clock (I chose Ruby Tuesday, for the record). We enjoyed a simple, savory meal there, after which he asked if I’d like to go for a walk somewhere; he claimed his legs were stiff from driving and sitting all day and could use a good stroll. Once we had finished bandying about our options, we settled on the nearby wildlife refuge and set off.

Finding a good place to walk around proved difficult. The day being a Sunday, the visitors’ center was closed as was the refuge office. So, we took a turn on the next promising road and began exploring. The first place we found was at a boat ramp with a lovely view of the sun and the water… and a large dead fish. The last bit kept us at bay in the car, so Beloved suggested a relocation. Off we went, taking one road and then another until we were on a single-lane gravel path which followed the river bank awhile before passing beneath the interstate and veering into a mown-down cornfield. The views to be had on the water always make for good photography, so I alighted onto a slightly muddy path and captured several moments through my camera lens.

It being a chilly evening, especially for the time of year, Beloved asked if I’d like to take a walk to warm up. If we went up the path a little ways, he pointed out, I might be able to get some good sunset photos. So up we went, pausing every now and then so I could lean precariously over the water and snap a few shots. Eventually we decided we’d gone far enough and stopped to take it all in. Leaning against him with his arms around me, I was quite shielded against the wind and cold; but being the considerate man he is, he asked if I was warm enough.

“Yes, I’m warm. I’m with you, aren’t I? That’s always enough.”

“Good.” (pause) “Know something?”

“What’s that?”

“You can be [with me] like this much more… starting now… if you say yes.”

And in less time than it took for me to react, he was on one knee opening a little red jewelry box and slipping the ring on my finger. Enter Jello-legs.

Right now I am happier than I have ever been before! I don’t know if or when I will sleep tonight; but if I do doze off, I can finally put a face to the groom of my dreams…

no happy medium

What is it about staying up ’til three and awakening at the crack of seven that is so frustrating during finals week?  The fact that I can’t keep up with (or get too far ahead of, I don’t know which) my own body.  Last night–or rather, this morning–I was at the top of my mental game.  I was typing at the speed of thought and comprehending the words on the pages.  The juxtaglomerular apparatus and the loop of Henle alike were under my mastery.  Except, well, when it came to getting rid of all the sugar I ingested yesterevening.  As I lay miserably awake in bed at half past three, the refrain that kept drumming through my inner ear was “one hundred percent of the glucose in the blood is reabsorbed into the blood after secretion into the nephron.” One hundred percent.  Which meant that no matter how much I knew about the kidneys (sorry, Anna), they wouldn’t make it any easier to get to sleep.  I was doomed to be restless.

And so it was that when my roommate’s alarm sounded at six, I also awoke.  I cocooned myself in my blanket, turning away from the sound and the light, but it was too late.  My heart was already racing, my sugar-infested blood feeding all my hungry little mitochondria until they, too, were bouncing off the walls like toddlers after a chocolate milkshake.  “It’ll be time to get up soon! Wake up!” And, of course, they wouldn’t leave me alone, not even after I actually did get up.  Even now, three hours later, I can’t shake them.

But neither can I be productive with my consciousness.  In just over a half hour I begin the first of two final exams for today, and I cannot concentrate at all on either of them.  There’s no time to sleep before then, nor is there the willpower to focus my mental efforts until then.  I suppose I’ll just have to cras$&*@#%$%

if not answers, grant me patience

Under normal circumstances, I would say that patience is a virtue that I have a firm grasp on.  At least, the semblance of it.  I can sit and wait for food in a restaurant (usually) without wondering how much longer it will take.  I can retreat into my own mind and there be entertained while standing in the ponderously slow checkout lines at the nearest Walmart.  Even when I am in a hurry, I manage to becalm myself with the reassurance that I will arrive on time, at the latest.  But the non-happenings of the past two weeks have left me so very frustrated, all I want to do is to get through the day and go to sleep so the next day will arrive sooner.  It appears that what I called patience was nothing more than a facet of my easy-going side.

I am speaking, as many college students would, about summer.  But sunning on the beach, hiking the Appalachian Trail, and spending day after lazy day upon my own quirky pursuits, however appealing, are far from the way I would like to spend it: in a research laboratory.  I have put in 6-8 hours a week during the semester in between classes and have really felt a kind of ownership over my work.  Ideally, I will be able to live here in town, quasi-independently, and go to the lab every day as a full-time job.  Payment would come from the grant/scholarship that my faculty mentor and I applied for, the minimum amount of which is more than I’ve ever made in two months’ time.  Meanwhile, my resume would be bolstered with this irreplacable experience and I would be able to better assess my fitness for research as a part of my future career.  Ideally.

As of yet, I have no backup plans.

It may seem foolish to rest my hopes upon the decision of a committee that probably got suckered into selecting awardees by the offer of a free lunch and a day away from normal work, but in practice that is precisely what I am doing.  I do not want to even think about the possibility of a long, taxing job search back home until this vision has been utterly destroyed.  So it is that I have anxiously peered through the tiny window in my mailbox, praying for some official-looking business letter to appear, and all for naught.  I gathered from the application that I would receive notification of my success (or failure) on or by the seventeenth… last Friday.  Friday came and went with nothing more than a fresh layer of dust.  So the good professor called the grant officer to ascertain the cause of the delay, at which he was assured that letters would be mailed the following week.  I did not expect to hear anything until Wednesday at the earliest because of the slowness of parcel post, but as soon as the PO opened that day, there I was, cupping my hands to block the glare on the box window, praying that my letter was masked by that stray beam.  It wasn’t.  Neither was it there yesterday.  Nor today.  Another phone call revealed that the committee has faced several delays in the selection process and will not be meeting until Tuesday next.

Which means that I will not know anything for another week.

Please, if I don’t show up for church/class/meals/etc, come find me.  My head’s probably stuck in the wall where I hit it a bit too vehemently.

march madness

I must have been out of my head! Honestly, how could I have even imagined that I would be able to sing at a funeral and immediately jump headlong into mission work with ten of my upbeat, enthusiastic peers?

What really happened was this: Saturday morning I spent taking my time getting everything together for the trip since I wouldn’t be leaving until after the funeral at 4.  Practiced the song I was to sing, it sounded pretty good, I copied out the lyrics just in case I went blank.  Got to the funeral home, it’s still okay, Uncle R. looked like he was seventy-five again instead of six weeks shy of eighty-eight.  My mother and grandmother came down for the service; and so it was that three generations of women represented our family.  It was interesting to see many of the faces I saw a year ago; most of them remembered me as “the sweet girl who sang at A.’s funeral” and thanked me again for that service.  Off to the graveside we went on that drizzly afternoon.  There was no elaborate ceremony, just a few Scriptures read and a few words spoken before my part came and it was all over.

It was the first time I had ever wept while singing to anyone.  I’m really not certain how or why, but when the last chorus came I could not hold myself together any longer. For once, my mother had to come help me finish instead of vice versa.  So. Draining.

The next five (or was it six?) hours of driving brought me safely to the campground where my mission team would be staying for the week.  Yes, I was glad to finally arrive and to see everybody, but nothing suited me more than sleep.  So sleep I did.

On Sunday, I awoke in the freezing cold of our cabin–I shouldn’t say I woke up because it implies that I actually slept–still exhausted but knowing that I had to get started on the day.  For that morning we were to lead a worship service at the nursing home, and I still hadn’t picked out anything to sing (yes, even after the previous day’s trauma, I was to lead music).  It’s awful for me when I don’t know what I’m doing until right before I have to do it.  But thankfully on Friday night I spent a good three hours looking up guitar chords for some favorite hymns, so all that was left was to practice them.  I thank God that I wasn’t alone in front of all those people that morning, because I did not feel that I could do anything, much less do it well, on my tiny share of willpower.  Nevertheless, it was all over quicker than I thought and without too many bumps.  But that night as the team gathered in the dining hall for a game of Apples to Apples, I found myself silently withdrawing from them, hoping that at least one person would follow me and feeling selfishly resentful when they didn’t.  They don’t understand, I muttered inwardly, and even if they do, they just don’t know how to deal with my pain.

I called Beloved and spewed to him an overflowing earful of “I can’t do this” and “I don’t want to be here” and “I don’t know what I’m even doing here”.  In his calm assuring way he sat in silence and allowed me to sob nigh unto exhaustion; then he picked up a shard of my broken image, brushed off the dust, and showed me how far I had carried myself away from the truth. “Don’t be sad about being sad,” he told me, “they don’t expect you to be at the top of your game right now.”  But that still doesn’t help me out… I’m still not sure I’m supposed to be here! “Remember, Romans 8:28 says all things work for the good…” Will you please quit quoting that verse at me? I know what it says! “Well, I don’t really know what to tell you. But God does have a reason for you to be there. Who knows, maybe you’ll end up loving the kids you work with.” Ughhhh… I don’t even want to think about children right now. Too much energy required to keep up with them. Okay, dear. Whatever you say. Sure. How am I going to get through this week??

I don’t really have the words to describe the transformation that occurred between Sunday night and Monday morning.  All I know is that when we began sharing Jesus with those beautiful three-, four-, and five-year-olds, I became enthralled with the message I was teaching.  Guess what–I was once again in charge of leading music.  The task which one day before seemed insurmountable was all at once incredible and doable. As I write, I am now reminded of a question a friend of mine once asked his music minister: “What do you do when you don’t want to worship God?”  The reason for this question is that worship leaders must do just that, whether they feel like it or not.  But the response to that inquiry is simple obedience.  When God’s praises don’t just spontaneously fling themselves off of your lips, when your heart is filled with diseases of sorrow and bitterness, but you still must fulfill your duties as a leader, you must do so out of obedience.

And, as I found out, God rewards that obedience.

Never before have I experienced such joy in ministering to the little ones.  Partly due to the help of my teammates, but mostly working off of some supernatural inspiration, I dropped my dreary outlook and focused all of my efforts on showing God to these children.  My prayers became less of “Help me,” and more of “Help them.”  By Thursday, I was actually sad to leave the daycare.  I tried my best to redeem what little time I had there that day; I so desperately wanted little E. and M. to remember the lessons from the week.  Yes, I was glad to have earned the trust and respect of the little dears, but I knew that they probably would forget about me within the month.  Perhaps when they learn to read, they will go back and see the crayon letters spelling out “Jesus Loves You” on their coloring pages.  Perhaps they will remember singing “Deep and Wide” and “This Little Light of Mine”  and “He’s Got the Whole World in His Hands” and want to know more.  Perhaps.

It was preposterous to think that I could plant these seeds on my own.  It is so easy to look back now and see how God was at work through me–but I know that all too soon I will revert back to my old ways of doubt, much like the Israelites did in spite of all the awesome ways they were provided for.  Lord, help my unbelief!

(For the record, Beloved, you were right. Again.)

the funeral singer

A year ago
(almost to the day)
was this selfsame spot shaded
‘neath the shelter of a tent
where a small blend of kin and friend
held a send-off celebration for one of their own.

The group was small;
not for lack of love, but
for lack of survivors.
Children of friends and siblings
(who, but for their parents’ acquaintance,
never would have crossed ways)
paid their respects and wept alongside the elders.

The lone member present from the next generation,
feeling too young to bear this grief,
had visited the dearly departed
right before the end.
Not really knowing how to offer comfort,
she was almost afraid to go,
for how could she ever comprehend the impending loss
of a wife of sixty-three years?
She had no words to bring.
Only song.

Beloved hymns of the faith
breathing life and truth into the room
where bodily death would come
the next day.
He closed his eyes and nodded
as she prayed for the strength of voice
to keep herself from weeping for him.

He asked her to sing at the graveside service.
One or two worshipful verses of His greatness
to bring truth to the hearts
of the mourners.

How great Thou art, O Lord,
Who hast kept me until now
and gifted me with a voice
to make melody unto Thee in times of sorrow.
Thou hast changed my heart of stone
for one of flesh,
that I might serve those who lament
with Thy sweet grace
and aid their rememb’rance of Thy mercies.
Abba, in Thy goodness Thou hast relieved the pain
of those whom Thou carried to Thy bosom.
Now renew Thy strength in my weakness,
and uphold my thin voice
as it serves to comfort them once again.
For though I have borne the weighty affliction
of five funerals in a year,
Thou hast borne all of my sins and their wages;
Thou alone canst sustain me.

spots of lace

I was one of the five drivers, but it took the collaborative effort of myself and my four passengers to reach our destination on Friday night. The map was adequate… to a point… but what we all forgot was that the original directions were to follow the signs to the Inn once we reached the park. This resulted in five cars careening in all directions, swinging out around sudden, sharp curves, breaking out of the convoy to explore possible routes to the conference. With no cell phone coverage, this proved to be a worrisome task. But somehow we all managed to reach the Inn at about the same time, approximately ten minutes before the opening meeting began. How, we’ll never quite know.

Once the large group adjourned, we received our room keys and dispersed to unload our cars, with the purpose of reconvening twenty minutes later for a short discussion and prayer time. That was all well and good, except for a certain blogger being too weary to contribute very much. But I didn’t have too long to wait; the conference directors asked that we at least be in our rooms by midnight, which we were, and even though I was rooming with three wonderfully perky freshmen who haven’t yet aged to the point of yearning for a ten-o’clock bedtime, the lights went out promptly at one in the a.m.

I had forgotten just how dark it gets in the middle of nowhere.

My eyes were open, and I could see… nothing. I closed them, opened them again, and Darkness still held sway over my sight. I heard M. get up and grope her way toward her duffel bag, but discovered I couldn’t even distinguish her outline against the wall. However, this wasn’t one of those oppressive bouts of lightlessness which threaten me with a covey of horrific phantasms. This… this was rest. This was a light blanket of the softest texture sent to soothe my mind and comfort my body. There was no hum of a sleeping laptop computer, no hint of fluorescent lights stealing in through the crack under the door, and no amount of careful listening could conjure up a police car’s siren. Simply silence and darkness. When I yawned one last deep time, I must have swallowed a couple of mouthfuls of this darkness, for I don’t remember anything else until my watch alarm quietly nudged me back to alertness at seven-thirty.

Saturday was a pleasant mixture of seminars and sunshine. After shivering my way through a lukecold shower, drying my hair, and layering up, I grabbed a tasty breakfast and sat in one of the many crowded nooks in the conference center with the other students from my group to enjoy it. The conversation centered around which topics each of us wished to pursue. Careful choices must be made, since there would be nine or ten different talks being given over the course of two one-hour sessions. One wanted missions; another, the reliability of the Bible. Anna went off to Heaven (the seminar, not the place, silly), and I found myself steering toward Pop Culture. I won’t go into detail here to conserve space, but those interested can read the outline here. The halls were far too crowded to make an attempt at searching out the second-hour sessions, so L. and I remained in our seats, which proved to be a wise decision since the discussion on Sanctification was to be held there (once again, I will post a link soon for the outline).

Immediately following these seminars was a catfish-and-hushpuppies lunch and a few hours of free time. Our group, like many of the others, chose to spend a couple of those hours hiking the short trails in the area and seeing the falls. What a gorgeous day for it! Although snow was in the forecast, the early afternoon was warm and sunny with a perfectly clear blue sky. The views were spectacular, the heights breathtaking, and the precipices (which we avoided as per instruction) terrifyingly alluring. Many conversations were held among the trees and rocks; often, I would participate in two at once–one before and one behind me–which led to hilarious confusion. I was reminded of the effects of sweet laughter and sunshine upon eighteen-to-twenty-somethings, and not for the last time that day.

Once we had come to the overlook at the waterfalls and taken in more than our fill of the grand scenery, we noticed a band of clouds approaching with a brisk wind and chose to begin the trek back to our vehicles. We were scooted along, almost as if the woods were saying, “Hurry up now and get inside; you can’t see your surprise until you do.” And so it was that we came back to the Inn and relaxed until suppertime.

Large group (another link will be here) went by fairly well. These bigger sessions were led by Bob Flayhart, the senior pastor at Oak Mountain Presbyterian Church (his blog can be found here). He’s quite an energetic fellow who made some very pertinent points and presented some very helpful illustrations. But once again, you’ll have to follow my link to an outline; this post is quite long enough without it. Small groups went quite swimmingly, and when we were finished, we went out the door into a breezy curtain all aswirl with spots of wet lace. It was a welcome sight for all; many of us could count the time in years since the last snowfall we saw. And, like sunshine, the snow turned this group of college-aged adults into children again. Giddily we ran to the parking lot and hurled hastily-formed slush balls at one another, caring little that our bare hands were burning from the cold and that our clothing was getting soaked. This must have lasted an hour or so; at any rate, eventually the unanimous consensus was to call a truce and go inside to thaw out for the night. In the morning we awoke to find the dazzling carpet, trampled out the previous night, restored to its original white splendor. It was with much regret we left this frosted wonderland on Sunday morning to descend back into our bleak gray world, but we still carried within us the happy thought that, at least for a few hours, we were bedecked with the same glistening jewels that adorned the serene surrounding forest.

sour candy hearts

I’ve been seeing red lately. A lot of it. Every time I walk into a store, there it is. A whole two aisles devoted to fuzzy plush hearts cheaply embroidered with run-of-the mill messages that I certainly wouldn’t say in earnest; in fact, I don’t think I can say them with a straight face. But someone out there is going to buy this junk and dump it on his unsuspecting wife/girlfriend/secret crush. Sure, it’s a well-meant gesture, but I have to take my Beloved’s stance on this one: it’s just another excuse for girls to get mad if their significant others don’t do anything special for them. Come on, gals. Really?

You hopeless romantics out there, take notice: YOUR SWEETHEART DOES NOT HAVE TO CELEBRATE THIS DAY! That’s right, you don’t have to do anything special when February 14th rolls around! You might be thinking, “Hold up, Marie, you’re just bitter because YOU don’t have any plans this year.” Nah, I’ve just learned to be realistic in my expectations. Beloved’s going camping with his buddies, I’m studying for the two tests which fall on the following Monday. It Happens. And Not Because He Forgets.

It’s so counter-intuitive to set aside only one day a year for attached persons to fawn over one another (and single persons to wear black in protest). Why? It takes all the spontaneity out of anything nice he does for me around this time of year. The degree to which he loves me is all the same, but I can tell the difference between a vase of roses given solely for my pleasure and the same vase given to appease Cupid. I much prefer the former. Not to say that I wouldn’t accept a gift should he choose to give it on that day, but the spirit and attitude in which it is given means more  to me than does the red lettering on a calendar. So (Beloved, I hope you’re reading this) before you give in to those beady little eyes on that teddy bear, step back and question your motives. Are you hoping that she’ll be placated and not rag on you for your forgetfulness last year? Do you hope to elicit some sort of favor in return? Or are you sincerely seeking to express your love for her? If you find yourself tending toward the first two, shame on you! Drop that candy sampler and don’t come back until you can do better! If you fall in the third category, what are you doing in the Vomit Day aisle? Think about her interests–does she really enjoy collecting those stuffed animals? Don’t do anything until you can come up with a better idea. You don’t have to meet a deadline. In fact, don’t worry about when it happens at all. Just don’t forget to act on that notion when it does come. February fourteenth? Okay. Your anniversary? Better. No special reason/”just because”? Now you’re getting the idea.

What do you think? What’s your preferred mode of expression for sweet nothings? Do you think my eyes are brown because I’m so full of it? Do tell!

the interview

At six-a-m the alarm clock shanghais my last precious moments of dreamless sleep to kick-start my first day back at school. I know it’s going to be long, but I don’t have much time to prepare. I blindly grope my way down from the top bunk and stumble into a lukewarm shower. Forty-five minutes later finds me frantically folding my dress slacks, blouse and jacket and sliding them into my bookbag so I don’t have to rush to get ready for my interview. Speedwalking through the cool January sunrise, I make record time to the lab to start my first day as a research intern. It’s five till seven, but the professor is already in his office brewing the day’s first pot of coffee. Turns out it takes less than an hour to go over this semester’s goals and show me around the facilities, so by eight-oh-five I am out the door with nothing to do. A cup of Jazzy Java keeps me occupied for the ten minutes it takes to walk to the coffee shop and back to the room.

The last thing one needs to do on interview day is to panic. So instead the next two hours are spent reading and dreaming up an embroidery design for the new ottoman until time for Economics. This professor will be interesting, methinks. She has lots of energy and is enthusiastic about her subject. Perhaps even interesting enough for me to move from the third row to the second row of seats. But a glance at the syllabus reveals a critical omission: lunchtime between this class and the next. Sandwich materials are now on the grocery list. Chemistry is the last class before Interview Time, so I stay for little more than half of it before scampering off to the ladies’ room to change clothes and hie me to the pharmacy admissions office.

Twenty minutes to one. Twenty minutes early. Good thing my magazine came in the mail today. But I’m not absorbing anything I read. Prop my elbow on the arm of the chair to disguise my trembling hands. Three other candidates trickle in. Oh good, conversation. Nothing of intelligence to say, though. Can’t focus on the talking any more than the reading. Finally Mr. Admissions Guy calls us into his office and takes pictures for our files and explains the process. Each of us gets half an hour in a team interview with two professors then half an hour to write an essay then a tour of the building and here’s some information about the people who’ll be interviewing you oh my gosh this is it i can’t believe i’m already interviewing for grad school after three semesters of college i hope i make a good impression goodness child stop cracking your knuckles and quit biting your lip you have to appear poised they already know you’re nervous do you have to prove it to them wait a second who’s interviewing me again i missed that part oh well here they are i guess it’s time to go…

Thirty minutes is not a great deal of time unless you’re nervous. They seem nice enough; the one who retrieved me from the office made conversation on the way here and maybe I’ve managed to laugh just enough to loosen up so I’m not shaking. Here’s the office oh good it’s another woman doing the interview. She’s nice too. “Tell us a little about yourself.” oh no i hate that question because there’s so much to tell but i can’t think of any of it ummmmm…. “and that’s how I chose pharmacy.” where did that come from? where have i been the last three minutes? Questions I try to answer clearly and specifically but it feels like I ramble on and on but they keep nodding and scribbling and occasionally they smile so maybe I’m doing alright… “You’ll have to forgive me, I need to think about this one a minute. I’m terrible at impromtu speeches.”

The last question in an interview is always the toughest. It’s the same everywhere I go, but somehow I overlook it when I’m thinking about what they might ask me: “Do you have any questions for us?” oops i meant to think about this one before i came and now they’ve asked it and i don’t have anything to ask ummm too much dead time here i need to say something maybe it’ll jog my memory or spark new conversation “What did you say you teach in the pharmacy school?” oh that was so lame can’t you think of anything better you had a million questions a couple of weeks ago and now not one of them presents itself oh well too late now at least you can smile and nod and ask about how well the curriculum fits together “It was nice meeting you, too.” over already? that was fast.

Back to the admissions suite, The Other Admissions Guy issues us yellow legal pads and pencils and a random question to write about for thirty minutes. Three minutes I’m drawing a blank, thirty-two I’m scribbling frantically even though it reads like an enormous load of bovine excrement and I want to crumple it up and start over. But the last tittle and jot and period are in place, so now it’s time to turn it in five minutes late darn it everyone else is waiting on me i hope that’s okay i hate timed essays anyway dagnabbit that last paragraph definitely didn’t make much sense at all but it’s done now oh the tour’s over already? that was fast.

Make some chit-chat with the next candidate to arrive and then it’s time to gather my belongings and leave. Out the door of the admissions office, down the hall and to my left the grand entryway. this is all very familiar… Two years (minus three weeks) previous I stood in this very spot after the scholarship interview. It was about the same time of day, too, so the sun was glinting off the tile floor just enough to gild the room in bronze. Very slowly I descended the stairs; the same stairs, the same situation, the same sense of calm. The same prayer escaped my anxiety-chewed lips as I pushed open the outer door and entered the peaceful afternoon: God, if You want me here, You will make a way.

questions of faith

The following is a note written by Stephen Nelson. I felt it necessary to repost his thoughts here because they echo many of my own. Do respond; I know I’m not the only one who’s been here.

I am greatly impacted by media. I think that I underestimate its affect on me. I just watched an excellent film that explored psychology. It was an interesting look on how people lie to themselves in order to find purpose and hope. This concept obviously raises many questions for a spiritual inquisitor.

I sincerely believe Christianity to be true, but what if it is a lie? I have read many arguments for it and many against it. I chose and choose faith, but I wonder what if the message of Christ is just something we tell ourselves? What if it is something we just need to believe to have hope? What if it is a lie to help us deal with the pain, injustice, and grief?

There are many things that keep me grounded in the most basic forms of faith, but the above questions hold me back for going deeper. Am I irrational for accepting the elementary and yet not taking my beliefs to their full extent? I’m not sure. I question that too.

Let me unpack what I am talking about. Basic faith: there are at least two routes to basic faith as I see it. These are the two that I use. First, is to start with God. The most convincing argument for the existence of God is the argument of design. There is intelligence, where did it come from? My answer: God. The second way is to start with Jesus: the accounts seem too vulnerable to be fabricated and in them you have a man like no other. He changes everything, challenging how society treated children, women, outcasts, sinners, and religious figures. He is too complex to understand and yet if you take him at his word you find yourself asking the question of C.S. Lewis: is this man a liar (intentionally misleading everyone), a lunatic (genuinely deceived about his identity, or Lord (the jewish messiah, God incarnate come to teach us and change our lives)?

This is basic to me. I accept it. I look up at the stars and cannot deny in my heart that God exists. I look at the complexity of living things and cannot push away the feeling of awe. And I study this fascinating man who lived two millennia ago and fall in love with him. The message taken from his life is everything that I desire most: a reason for why I’m messed up, a way to fix the problem, and a reason to face tomorrow.

But there comes a problem and this is where I see myself today: if you accept the “basics”, you must take the hard stuff with it. The first of which is the holy spirit. If the incarnation wasn’t hard enough to believe, now you’ve got this one. The presence of God dwelling within his people, a helper. Now I begin to have doubts. What a convenient fabrication this could be! A supernatural presence that is always with you offering you wisdom and discernment if you only trust it. That’s great except we aren’t very good listeners. We easily attribute a decision to the spirit and then we can have complete freedom from criticism? What happens when we just did what we though was best and whipped out the “God card”?

I hope there are some experts on the spirit out there that can help me. I don’t see myself in any sort of crisis. I just have a lot of questions and am afraid of being lied to. Religion has an astounding ability to manipulate. The religious leaders of Jesus time were excellent at it. I do not want to be manipulated nor do I want to manipulate others. I want truth and I’m not afraid of it. What’s the truth? Right now I am stuck somewhere between faithless and sold-out. It’s tough to let go when you’re not certain.

I want to believe it, but I’d be lying if I said I fully do. My life doesn’t suggest that I take the deepest and most important aspects of spirituality seriously. I do and I don’t. It would be impossible to be a christian without a belief in the supernatural and the spiritual, but I know there must be more.

I know I’m not alone in asking these. Everyone who walks this path passes through this section.